Iron Grown Roses
by Nakimochiku
Summary: He's just a rose with too many thorns, perfect, impure, strong, fragile. England x France, oneshot, enjoy.


Iron Grown Roses

"Give it up, piece of shit." The words, hissed through a malicious grin, weren't without malevolence. They weren't without damnable feelings, infesting, growing, multiplying until they were both chained together under the weight of them.

Arthur ground his heel into Francis's chain mail clad chest, the previously respectable overcoat slightly opened, looking over his work, his art. Francis looks disturbingly beautiful. His hair scattered in the mud, his flesh swelling red around cuts, blood and dirt spread over his face, lip split, an eye blackening.

He is beautiful.

"Give up what, exactly, Mon Cher?" The endearment is more irritating now than ever, because there's a nameless monster behind it. His fingers curl around the ankle of the foot pinning him, trying to throw him off. But his hands are shaking thin and weak. Scars, white and obvious against the fair skin of his wrist, disappear under the chain mail. Arthur takes satisfaction in the scars.

He may as well have carved the flesh himself, carefully, slowly to hear Francis scream. It's his art. His.

"You know exactly what I mean, France." He spits out the title, watches Francis flinch, and takes pleasure in it. But Francis still smiles triumphantly.

"I will never give up." And he turns his nose up, challenging him, blue eyes glowing a perfect shade of insanity. And the cracks in those eyes, the way they darken with sorrow and a million other emotions, is beautiful. All of which Arthur will puzzle out later when he returns to his soldiers, alone in the glow of his campfire.

He's so sickeningly beautiful.

But Arthur grins, leaning down until they're nearly face to face. Francis meets his eyes evenly, no fear, no anguish. He drags fingers over the cut on his cheek, smearing the drying blood and reminding himself that he made it. Francis is his artwork. Francis doesn't jerk away, stiff and still as his hands explore that which is his, face blank.

And it infuriates him because he wants a reaction. He wants nothing more than to dig in viciously, just to hear the screams. Just to hear Francis beg.

"Your land is mine. I've taken it all. I own your people. I own your rivers, your roads, your towns, your money. Everything of you is mine. You are mine."

There's fury. Dear god, there's fury. And it burns in those gorgeous blue eyes, creating blue flames that threaten to engulf everything. And he burns with it, smoldering with it, because it's the reaction he wants. So he grins, emerald eyes glinting with pleasure and a fury of his own. This is what he wants.

And then Francis's face is blank and calm, all the fury drawn back behind a curtain. He smiles seductively up at him. "Is that so, Mon Cher? And what do you do to things that are yours?" His breath ghosts over Arthur's lips, smoldering eyes clouded with smoke, fury, lust, a million other things that Arthur could drown in. He burns him as he plays the card he knows best.

Pure sex flows from his finger tips where he touches his arm. His mouth is so close, close enough to taste and bite and bruise. Close enough to kiss and lick and feel.

He's just a rose with too many thorns, growing over iron. Strong, fragile, perfect, impure.

"I tear them apart." His fingers dig into Francis's hips, he wants to leave bruises. He wants them to sprout along the pale soft flesh in blues and brilliant purples. He wants to add to his artwork. And he doesn't tell Francis that he would never tear him apart. He would hide him away, to be his alone. He would use him, abuse him, love him, but never tear him apart.

He would cut, he would rend, he would kiss and bite until he leaves marks, but never tear apart.

Under the dirt encrusted clothes, once a handsome powder blue, he knows there are bruises, his doing, turning green and purple. Splotches of tender color litters his body sporadically, no rhyme or reason, simply for the sake of art. He presses his fingers into them, drinks in the pained groan, the glare Francis barely restrains.

Underneath dirty blue clothes, there is art he had painted himself. And it is so beautiful it burns.

Roses dominating cold unmoving iron.

His artwork. More colors, more pain. He wants the reaction. Wants to break and destroy. He will continue until every inch of Francis is his, until all of him is crushed in his grasp, his. Every hair, every glance and breath and word. Every finger, every movement and touch and step. He would own. He would swallow. All of Francis would be his.

"You're mine." He whispers, kissing Francis's mouth even as he didn't respond, memorizing the taste, the feel and the softness, prodding with his tongue to take more, fingers tangling in the matted blonde curls. The delicious mouth is slack against his.

And it infuriates him because he wants a reaction. He needs a reason to get angry, a reason to bite and curse and grin and control. He needs a reason to destroy, to mutilate, otherwise he will love too much. The love leaves him sleepless at nights, the love hurts.

He kisses harder, tastes blood, dirt, pain. Chuckles deeply, insanely because it's his fault. The artwork of sensation, pricking it's way through his system and painting him shades of red, is his fault.

"I'm not yours." Francis growls, pushing up on his shoulders. "I am my own. I will defeat you, and I will be whole again." Arthur laughs cruelly, tearing the barrier of clothes away. His body, colorful, exposed to his fingers. He aches, is ready to paint, to hear Francis scream. He aches for it.

"I won't let you."

Francis groans, squirming to escape his touch, clawing at the ground. He won't let him go, gripping tight, appreciating the new bruises shaped like his fingers, the new colors, the flushed cheeks and gasping breath. All of it claims France, Francis, as his.

"I'll hold you tight, and I don't care how long it takes me, how hard I must fight. You are mine."

He's surprised by a swift kick, unbalanced from his spot above Francis, thrown off by a jarring punch, and another. Feels his nose crack painfully, fresh blood, color, dripping down his chin.

"Never." He hisses, the smoldering blue replaced by fire. And then he's gone, comparable to a breath of spring in winter.

He's beautiful, sickeningly so, because he's an imperfect rose claiming iron.

Owari


End file.
